This is not a one off story. It takes place every time I set foot in St Pancras, fresh off the Brussels train.
Through the sea of voices, music creeps up on me. The sun pours through the glass ceiling. If not sun, then light. Or clouds in a hurry. The blue piano is mastered by a red haired guy in green trainers. Hmm, it must be a personal composition.
I look up. There they are, the 60 million bricks of St Pancras. The Dent Clock. And the familiar faces I’ve never seen before in my life.
It feels good. I soften up, smell the Monmouth coffee and fresh butter croissants. The suitcase is heavy, but I enjoy every step of the way to the tube station, shrouded in people’s hurries, announcements, music and light.
The suitcase gets lighter, and lighter, because beyond all this there’s another bonus. This massive, amazing place called London.